As the night wore on and the fire crackled, the giants' serious discussion devolved into yet another of their legendary drinking sessions. Giants, known for their love of revelry, raised their massive cups, fashioned from dwarf wine barrels and drank deeply from them. The cheap, low-alcohol wine they'd gotten from the elves in the north wasn't the best quality, but that never seemed to matter once the barrels were open.
For Bastian, this was exactly the kind of night he dreaded most. He shuddered at the thought of getting caught up in the giants' drinking games. If they forced him to join in, the next time he woke up might very well be the sunset of the following day. These giants could drink for hours, and they had the size and stamina to prove it.
Seeing Drax's eagerness for the task ahead, Bastian quickly made plans with him to set out early the next morning for the elves' territory. As soon as the arrangements were made, Bastian wasted no time in slipping away, keen to avoid any further invitations to join the impromptu celebration.
He was all too familiar with the overzealous hospitality of the giants in his tribe. If he got roped into their drinking party, he wouldn't be waking up for a long time and he had no desire to test his limits against their dwarf-sized mugs and never-ending supply of wine.
With that, he made his exit, grateful to escape before the wine-soaked revelry ensnared him.
That one spoonful of water might as well have been half a bucket for the half-elves. While it was no trouble for them to drink, it could be a different story for someone of mixed blood.
But when Bastian left the gathering, he remained blissfully unaware of the pair of eyes that followed him from the shadows of a window.
Bastian's small house, tucked into the southernmost corner of the village, looked more like a child's plaything compared to the grand, almost fortress-like homes of his neighbors. It had a simple charm, with its weathered wood and small windows, but anyone passing by could tell it belonged to someone who preferred solitude.
As soon as Bastian entered his modest cabin, he wasted no time getting to work. Tomorrow's task was not going to be the usual hunt or a mere search for materials; it was a matter of life and death. His mind kept wandering to a familiar face, one that brought with it a sense of dread he couldn't shake.
"Days like this," he muttered under his breath, "are just beginning."
Unease gnawed at him, and Bastian knew that when that feeling struck, action had to follow. He had to be prepared, especially with the early start tomorrow demanded. Without hesitation, he went to his pack and began organizing it, piece by piece, methodically checking each item. These weren't just trinkets or tools, each one was a relic of his past, small treasures he had accumulated over years of exploration. And more than that, they were his lifelines.
He pulled out four small sculptures, their magic faint. Two had already lost their vitality, their once shimmering glow now dull. The wolf spirit, cracked and fragile, had been his most trusted companion until recently.
Next came the weapons: a forged steel longsword, its once-glorious blade now marred with dirt and burn marks from his amateur attempt at fire enchantment. It was the weapon he had bought from the elves at a steep cost, a necessity for his hunting. As he inspected the cracked blade, Bastian sighed. It might be more practical to replace it than attempt another patchwork fix.
Beside it was a short dagger, intricate carvings of dragon scales glistening along its edge. The dagger was no ordinary tool, it was made of mithril, a magical metal, and had been his trusted blade for skinning hides. Mithril was light, tough, and rare; so rare, in fact, that this one dagger was worth more than all his belongings combined. The elves, with their superior magical industry, controlled the supply of such precious metals. For someone like Bastian, affording even one mithril item had been a gamble, but it was one he had needed to take.
Mithril and adamantium, the prized magical metals, were leagues beyond ordinary steel or iron. The frozen northern lands where Bastian called home were anything but barren. Underneath the towering, snow-covered mountains lay treasure troves of these metals. But without the skilled hands of dwarves, who preferred warmer, southern hills, the riches stayed buried.
Bastian's mithril dagger, decorated with a dragon head at the hilt, held sentimental value. It was a relic from his childhood, a connection to a heritage he couldn't deny. His mixed blood had gifted him with weak magical powers; just enough to create subpar enchanted items. But it was his bloodline, nonetheless.
One by one, he went through his items, adjusting, preparing, making sure everything was in order. Today's brush with death had rattled him more than he liked to admit. The thought of tomorrow, of what dangers might await, pushed him to be meticulous in his preparations. Each item, no matter how small, had to be maintained, for his life might depend on it.
The hours slipped away unnoticed as he worked, the cabin's stillness only broken by the occasional creak of wood and the soft clink of metal. Just as Bastian finished with the last item, a sharp knock echoed through the quiet room.
He froze for a moment. After the day he'd had, he thought he'd earned a few hours of peace. But it seemed that rest was still a long way off.
***
"What is my greatest treasure? Is it a masterpiece that has transcended time, immortalized in the annals of history? A mystical relic with divine powers? No, not in my eyes," written on the Elf Sage statue. "To me, the greatest treasure is the crisp coolness of winter felt in the sweltering heat of summer, and the warmth of a sun-soaked beach in the midst of a polar blizzard. When our mastery over technology bends the laws of nature, those once immovable rules become nothing more than cumbersome tools at our disposal."
The Elven camp was not hard to find. Towering above the landscape was a colossal statue, visible from miles away, beckoning all who approached. This statue depicted a middle-aged elf, cloaked in a flowing hood, his face serene yet wise, a scroll clutched in one hand as he gazed into the horizon. This was no ordinary elf; this was His Excellency, the Sage, spiritual leader of the elven race, recognized not only by elves but by all the creatures of the world.
His titles were countless, wise man, prophet, the greatest wizard to have ever lived, the one who sought the roots of all existence. So revered was he that no race dared deny him the title of Sage. Upon entering the Elven village, visitors were immediately greeted by his imposing statue and the inscription of his most famous quote, etched for all to see:
"Only those who master the forces of nature and turn its laws into mere playthings will be acknowledged by all races and bear the title of Sage."
In this age, where gods were distant and the four great races ruled their respective domains, the title of "Sage" was a mark of unrivaled prestige. To be granted such recognition meant standing at the pinnacle of power, fame, and influence.
For newcomers, the audacity of the Elf Sage's words might seem like mere arrogance. But once they set foot inside the village, they would quickly realize how limited their understanding had been.
Drax, a towering frost giant whose very skin shimmered with the essence of ice, muttered irritably as he stripped off his thick leather coat and tossed it onto the trailer. "Every time I come here, it's unbearable. Too damn hot. How do these elves stand it?"
Beside him, Bastian, a half-Elf with a natural resilience to the cold, fared slightly better but couldn't hide his discomfort. He loosened his collar and exhaled deeply, trying to cope with the unseasonable warmth. The heat was out of place, especially here, in the frigid northern territories.
For within this frozen land, nestled amidst ice and snow, lay an evergreen forest where spring reigned eternal. Towering trees, their bark a soft, pale green, stretched skyward, their canopies bathed in a gentle glow. Shafts of emerald light filtered down from the treetops, bathing everything below in the soft, pulsing essence of life itself. It was as if nature itself thrived under the elves' protection.
Elves strolled leisurely through this forest, their grace and elegance apparent in every step. Children played beneath the trees, laughing as they chased one another, while elven maidens picked ripe, glistening fruits from low-hanging branches. The scene was idyllic, an untouched paradise, where forest paths were lined with blooming flowers, fireflies flitted between tulips, and the air was sweet with the scent of honey and lilting song. Even the lakes sparkled a brilliant blue, dotted with graceful swans and migratory birds.
Bastian sighed deeply, taking it all in. No matter how many times he visited, he could never get used to the contrast between this magical oasis and the harsh reality that lay just beyond its borders.
But before he could lose himself in the tranquility of the scenery, Bastian's thoughts were interrupted by a familiar and unwelcome sight, a sharp arrow, its point aimed directly at him. He chuckled dryly and raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Ah, I see I'm as welcome as ever, Long Ears. Is this how you greet those who've come in peace? Where is your chief? We're here for the job you commissioned. Or do you greet all your helpers with pointed arrows and cold glares?"